


December Solstice

by DontHateMeNow



Category: Berserk
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Slash, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontHateMeNow/pseuds/DontHateMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffith's eyes remain blank, and Guts fears that this winter will be especially harsh.</p>
<p>AU where Griffith still has his tongue, can walk (somewhat) and doesn't find the behelit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter's Beginning

_Cold_

It is the first thing Griffith notes of when he awakens. It strikes him but a second later that it is not an unpleasant coldness that surrounds him.

He can still remember the many nights spent curled up in his own waste in a dungeon so deep beneath the earth that even the cold had felt different. Now as he lies here with his eyes closed, the chill that bites at his skin feels strangely welcoming. For one thing, it _bites_ , but it does not seep into his bones as he expects it to. Instead, the nimble fingers of frost merely travel skin deep, gliding about him in an almost comforting fashion.

Griffith decides that he likes this cold far better than the poisonous chill that had once slithered through his bones, clogging and suffocating until death had seemed like the sweetest escape.

He falls asleep, imagining chilly hands swinging him from side to side, returning him safely back into the realm of dreams.

 

 

Were his hands always this small?

It is the first thing that Guts notes of when he redresses the bandages on Griffith's frail wiry fingers. Months of being locked up have made his hands so pallid that Guts fears to look directly at them lest he be blinded by how sickeningly white they have become.

Griffith had once reminded Guts of winter with his pale complexion and blue eyes the colour of the sky reflected on ice. Ice reflects everything and yet when Guts observes these reflections, he concludes that the ice seems to add its very own essence to the images that it shines back to the world. They appear colder and sharper as though the ice had decided a long time ago that people were much too soft and dull and thus, needed to be shown the potential that they could reach by looking upon their own reflections.

He'd once shared this observation with Griffith who had in turn, observed that Guts must have had far too much to drink for one night.

A twitch brings him back from the murky shadows of his past. He looks up to see one of those beautiful blue eyes peering up at him from beneath a frame of black lashes. It puzzles Guts how Griffith could have such dark lashes when his hair was so white. A small smile paints the tired cherub face, before being quickly replaced by a pained expression as Griffith attempts to rise onto his elbows.

"Easy now, you've got too many wounds to even think about getting up," Guts warns, his voice the perfect combination of stern and concern.

He receives a blink in response and Griffith merely nods his consent before drifting back to sleep.

 

 

"Thank you."

Guts looks up from his work to see Griffith smiling quietly up at him from beneath the blankets. His cheeks are reddened and his breathing from where Guts sits seems slightly laboured.

He walks over to place a too large hand on the man's forehead, recoiling at the heat that pulses beneath Griffith's sweat soaked skin.

"Shit."

 

 

For three days and three nights the fever rides its course through him, bringing forth those terrifying memories of that dank grey dungeon beneath the earth. He screams in his sleep and outside, the entire Band of the Hawk cringe at what has become of their fallen leader.

Casca and Guts take turns tending to him, giving him the occasional sip of water when he seems lucid enough and placing wet rags on his forehead in a desperate attempt to bring down the fever.

In their most anxious moment when Griffith refuses to stop screaming, his voice cracking from its own vain attempt to rid its master's demons, does Guts swallow whatever pride he has left and pull down the covers to accompany his leader.

Griffith had once said that it was a woman's duty to keep the man warm, but when Casca offers, Guts finds himself vehemently refusing. He owes this to Griffith because Casca who has always vowed to be Griffith's sword, despite never being acknowledged for doing so, was not the one who had left that winter night.

Besides, when it comes to Guts, Griffith has never been one to shy away from physical contact. It occurs to Guts that Griffith finds a sort of comfort from being near him. With that thought in mind, he brings the smaller man closer, tucking Griffith's head into the crook of his neck.

Eventually he stops screaming.

 

 

"I want to go outside."

Guts snorts awake to the sight of Griffith's amused face peering up at him. He notes that the red splotches on his cheeks have subsided.

"I wish to go outside," Griffith says again, looking directly at Guts with a determination in his eyes that Guts has not seen (and thought he never would) since their last duel before his departure.

He feels relieved and somewhat horrified at the same time. He is relieved because these few months of scorching torture, though damaging, have not broken Griffith as thoroughly as he had initially believed.

Guts however, is also scared because he fears what Griffith will do next.

It scares him to think of how quickly Griffith's dreams had turned to ash. He often finds himself wondering at night whether or not his friend's actions had really been spurred by his sudden departure. It astounds him still how deeply affected Griffith seemed to have been by his leave.

"Guts?"

He looks down at the man currently taking up his thoughts; Griffith looks tired with lines and purple bruises beneath hungry blue eyes that are all together too large on his thin, gaunt face. His once beautiful long hair had been shorn short during his time in the dungeons and was now hanging in patches, limp and thin atop his skull-shaped head.

Despite this, Guts is happy. Appearances were just appearances and Griffith, with time and care, would be back to looking pretty and healthy in no time.

_Pretty?_

"You're not listening are you?" Griffith huffs, eyes slanting in mock annoyance at Guts' unresponsive figure.

In truth Guts has heard every word and is now merely choosing his own words. This is a skill that he has only just recently acquired. It would not do to think so rashly when it was Griffith's life on the line. That had been Casca's scolding, but Guts, in a state of worry and panic, readily agreed that it would be best that they tread lightly around him for the time being.

So it is with some consideration that he says:

"No."

He has never admitted, and probably never will, to being adept at the skill.

This earns him a frown. Griffith is no fool. He is aware, has been for quite some time, of the silent shift in power that has been slowly making itself known between them even before their untimely duel.

"It is not in your place to disobey orders Guts."

He wishes to test this change, to see how Guts will react.

"I don't think it's in your place to be giving any..."

Griffith nods internally, so his assumptions had been correct.

"...but if you insist on pushing yourself, I'm sure as hell you won't let anyone stop you."

And once again, he finds himself baffled by the anomaly that is Guts.

 

 

The walk, _if you could even call it that_ Guts thinks drily, is slow and laborious. Griffiths' legs are all together too thin to support even his own measly weight. It is night time and most of the band members are asleep save for the ones on guard duty. Corkus and Rickert turn when they hear their footsteps.

Rickert is the first to get up, dashing towards them with a beaming grin fitting of a youngster his age. Guts finds himself sometimes envious of the boy's childish innocence. Rickert at the early age of eleven has found a family that Guts can only dream that Gambino had been able to provide.

Griffith smiles warmly, flinching only briefly when Rickert tackles him with a massive hug around his waist. He bends down and combs through the boy's yellowy hair as he begins to sob into his stomach.

Guts notes that Griffith goes about comforting Rickert as well as he does everything else in life, hushing cries of "I missed you" and brushing over all of the boy's worries with a reassuring voice.

For despite his innocence, Rickert is a child who kills and Guts is all too familiar with his need to be reassured.

Blue eyes peer up at him and a small smile graces chapped lips.

Guts tightens his hold on Griffith's waist.

 

 

Corkus watches them from afar. He knows that he ought to go as well, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Griffith even from this distance looks tired and ill, and Corkus needs time, time to realize and accept the fact that Griffith is not the man he had once been.

He knows that he is not the only one who has realized this. He knows despite how hard he tries to convince himself and the people around him otherwise, that Griffith has changed. Corkus does not doubt that the man is still capable of miracles, he only fears that Griffith has lost the resolve to perform them.

Corkus knows how it feels to depend on others and to have your views shifted so drastically by them. It is a dangerous endeavour, he thinks in his world-wearied mind, to place your hopes and dreams in the hands of people.

 

 

Rickert chats amiably, filling him in on everything that he has missed in the past few months. They have returned back to the prairie schooner where Griffith lies comfortably against rucksacks filled with beans and a blanket draped over his thin frame.

"We were all really worried...A lot of people left after the attack...Did you know that Casca is a terrible cook?"

Rickert's happy voice fills the silence. He sits next to his leader, dutifully reporting everything that his frazzled mind can recall of those ten bleak months. Griffith smiles dutifully back, playing his part in this game of make believe. Rickert needs this and no matter how hard he tries to deny it, somewhere deep inside his own tired heart, he needs it too.

 

 

 


	2. Getting Colder

 

 

 

Winter arrives in a flurry of white flakes. The chill in the wind continues to bite at his skin, but it feels harsher now. He spends these days either curled up in the wagon or taking small walks outside with Guts. His strength is slowly returning, though he fears it will never be what it once was. Caska always sets out the largest plate during mealtimes for him. It makes Griffith feel both guilty and frightened when a member of the band brings him food.

(Rickert had been right, Casca truly is a dreadful cook)

He knows that he must get stronger, that they depend on him, but sometimes he needs someone to depend on too.

Guts looks up from where he sits, polishing his sword. Griffith's eyes are glazed over as they peer out into the drifting snow. There is an air of something akin to sadness around the man that comes not only from his melancholy appearance. His snow white hair has grown longer, his blue eyes more solemn. Guts fears that Griffith is beginning to fade.

He wonders where that icy determination has gone.

"Please stop staring."

The voice is sad, quiet and contemplative, a far cry from the Griffith Guts had once known. It makes him feel inexplicably angry inside seeing him like this.

"Is that an order?"

He lowers his head, drawing the blanket that Pippin had given him earlier that morning tighter around his frame. He wishes for the snow to disappear, for summer to envelope him in its warm embrace.

_No_

"Yes."

 

 

Casca feels hopeless.

She hates cooking, even Judeau and Pippin are far more proficient at the skill than she is. She remembers a time when there had once been women around the camp who had prepared meals and completed other mundane chores for them, but they have all long since vanished.

Griffith had once told her that it was a women's duty to cook. She ought to have been offended by that, but instead his words and the way he had spoken them with that small quiet smile of his had made her feel proud, proud to be a woman. It is one of the reasons why Casca admires him so. Griffith has the ability to manipulate insult into compliment and now...

...now Casca can see just how valuable the art of cookery really is.

She tries her best to emulate the work of those mercenary women before her, but Casca is unlike the rest of them. Perhaps that is why she fights in battles, to prove a point, to show that women could be just as strong as men.

_If it were only that simple._

Casca knows that that is untrue. She knows that she is no feminist. Her reasons for fighting are far more womanly, _humanly_ than that. Humans love to love, just as much as they love to hate.

She had loved Griffith, she believes she still does. It had been her reason for fighting. She fought so that Griffith might trust her, so that she might become his sword. For despite all of his splendour and magnificence, Griffith is but a young man, a child really. Casca cannot begin to even fathom the staggeringly heavy burden that rests on his thin, proud shoulders.

On the other hand, Casca isn't blind either, she has come to understand the pressures of power, the pressure to be perfect. How could anyone expect to be such a thing when they come from a species so sullied that even their definition of perfection was flawed? There is no such thing as ideal or perfect, at least not in people. There is only love, love which spawns hatred, despair and pleasure. Then there is indifference which comes from a lack of love.

Love and devotion towards Griffith had been _her_ reason for fighting, but now...

"Mind if I sit with you for a while?" Guts doesn't bother waiting for an answer, flopping down onto the log next to her.

...now she is unsure.

"He's asleep by the way, took awhile but the guy's exhausted. You done with that? I'll go bring him some when you're finished or maybe you could do it, that is if you're not busy cooking." He eyes the pot with a suspicious stare.

Casca rolls her eyes, _typical Guts_.

"Stop with that look, you should be grateful that I even bother taking the time to feed all of you."

"You mean poison right?"

She shoots him a half-hearted glare. Guts, the man with no dream who lives each day just to survive onto the next, swinging his sword from battle to battle.

To think she had once believed in those words.

She leans her head against his shoulder. Unlike Griffith, who always seems so faraway and untouchable, Guts is right here next to her, a warm and powerful presence that overflows her senses.

Humans love to love and Casca is no exception.

"It's not like I don't appreciate your cooking, but there _is_ a difference between appreciation and satisfaction."

"Satisfied my ass. It'll taste good this time, just you watch." She smiles. Bantering with Guts, she likes it.

"I'll let Griffith be the judge of that. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job of hiding it, but I can tell when he doesn't like something."

She frowns at that. She doesn't like failing, especially when that failure directly affects Griffith.

"I do appreciate everything you've done for us though."

She looks up, confused.

"Your cooking among...other things," Guts makes a non-committal gesture with his right hand, his left arm wrapping itself around Casca's waist.

This picture that they paint together, it feels so right.

Humans love to love. However, in exchange for doing so they also expect (sometimes subconsciously) to receive something in return for expressing such an overwhelming emotion.

And Casca is no exception.

 

 

He awakens to something that smells frighteningly similar to a charred wood squirrel.

"Griffith, time for supper." A soft voice has him sitting up, rubbing the sleep away from his tired eyes.

Casca.

He hasn't seen her much in the past few weeks. That's to be expected though, the Band of the Hawk are a mercenary group now and mercenaries need florins to survive. Her and Guts and what's left of their men have been fighting to earn whatever spare coins they can get.

Griffith hates seeing them go off to battle while he lies here in this stuffy old wagon. He hates feeling so inadequate, he hates the cold thoughts that begin to creep into his mind on those days when nothing else is present to occupy his attention.

_A little boy with a knights doll, a child playing war in a back alleyway._

_A fire. This is war, there is no spectator seat on the battlefield._

_Am I a terrible person?_

"Guts says you don't like my cooking, but I want you try to finish it. You have to get your strength up."

_What are you thinking? This is the path you chose isn't it?_

"Why?"

Casca looks up, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"What do you plan on doing? Why do I _have to_ get stronger?"

He feels rage bubbling inside of him. He hates this feeling. the worries that grip at the edges of his mind, condensing together into a chilling fear. He draws the blanket tighter around himself. His dream, the deaths, tugging at his mind, his heart, looming closer and closer.

_It's too cold._

A nervous laugh brings him out of his thoughts. Casca is staring at him with a most distressing expression.

"The band will be leaving Midland soon. We plan on heading south, to Vritanis. We've been getting work here and there, but it's not much and the King's bound to come after us sooner or later. Vritanis might be better, we should go, but only if you think so too." The last part is rushed as though she is unsure now of what to say to him.

"And even if you don't want to leave, you must get stronger. You-we're not safe in Midland anymore so...so you must, for your sake, for everybody's sake."

He can see the pity in her eyes and it makes his blood curl.

"Stop it," he whispers.

"I'm sorry, but it's true. If you don't want to go then I won't either. I owe you that much at least."

He looks up, surprised. There is conviction in her eyes and he knows that she means it.

_This is the path you chose isn't it? The path to your dream._

She and Guts are so alike in that sense. The thought brings a bittersweet taste into his mouth. He eyes the plate she has given him, how Casca managed to make vegetable broth smell so rancid, he will never know.

Nonetheless he is grateful.

"We should go."

 

 

She leaves Griffith to pick at his dinner. There are things to do, a journey to plan and thoughts that she has to sort out before doing so. A flutter in her stomach stops her mid-step.

This winter, Casca fears, will be especially harsh.

 

 

 


	3. Radiation Fog

 

 

 

 

 

"Are you alright?"

He watches her with a quizzical expression. Casca seems...distracted. He gets the feeling that whatever fret that has been plaguing her thoughts must be serious. Besides, Casca rarely lets anything sidetrack her from her work.

"Fine," comes the terse reply.

He frowns. It most definitely must be something serious if she feels obligated to keep it from him. Perhaps it has something to do with Guts or...

"We'll be leaving soon, make sure you get your men ready. Getting down to Vritanis will take at least a fortnight's worth of travel by horse."

"Yes ma'am." He gives her a mock salute, raising his hand to his forehead.

She smiles. He likes it when she smiles.

'It's getting awful cold, we best be sure to get a head's start before winter really starts setting in."

"Yeah, we should get going as soon as possible," she agrees, a thoughtful expression on her pretty face.

Neither of them say anything after that. He focuses his attention back onto the horse in front of him, brushing it's coat with gentle methodical strokes.

A beat.

"Judeau?"

"Yeah?" He looks up from his work.

"Do you think going to Vritanis is the right decision? I mean, I know we're not safe in Midland, but who's to say that things will be better in Vritanis? I've been hearing word going around that they're on the brink of war. Once we get there, what'll happen? Plus it's almost winter and Griffith is still recovering and-"

He brings his hands up, effectively bringing her short rant to a halt. She looks up at him with a worrying expression. He returns it with a reassuring smile.

"I think we should go. Staying in Midland is definitely not an option unless we want to stay in hiding forever. If we stay, we'll eventually be killed, Vritanis is our best bet. It's safer there, I'm sure of it." He gives her a resolute nod, indication of his certainty regarding her verdict.

"Besides you've never made one wrong decision in the last ten months, don't start doubting yourself now."

She smiles back at him, her shoulders drooping slightly as she lets out a sigh.

He notes that it sounds neither relieved nor reassured.

Something terrible, he fears, must have happened.

 

 

He walks shakily around the wagon. They're pitching camp here for the night. He feels it's best that he stretches his legs out for a bit while he still has the chance. There will be more than enough days to spend in the wagon once they leave for Vritanis.

He notices them before they notice him.

Her and him.

Him and her.

His arms wrapped around her waist, their lips smashed together in a desperate kiss.

He feels as if a bucket of ice has been dumped on him. He watches them in morbid fascination, praying that this has all been just one huge misunderstanding, a mistake, that she had just tripped near him and their lips had accidently collided, willing them to pull apart.

When they do not, he turns away.

When had this happened? When had they become so close? His mind is numb and before he knows, there is red.

_When have I become so blind?_

This must not be allowed to continue, he decides.

 

 

"Are you alright?"

He frowns down at Griffith who has spent the last three minutes staring sullenly down at his own pale hands.

"It's too cold."

Guts hadn't expected a reply, but nonetheless he is quick to get up, closing the opening of the tent.

"That good?" He asks.

"Yes," Griffith smiles gratefully back up at him, drawing the thick quilt closer to his own body.

"We'll be leaving soon," he comments staring around the tent for his own bedding.

"Yes for Vritanis," comes the quiet reply.

"Yeah," he smiles when his head touches the pillow. He's exhausted and more than ready for sleep to take over.

A cold hand on his stomach has him snapping his eyes wide open. The tent is dark but he can feel Griffith's soft warm breaths on the side of his neck, something that seems strangely like a kiss being planted on his jaw, and boney ribs rubbing against his side.

"You were always so warm Guts."

He stays absolutely still as those soft lips press about his face from his cheeks to his nose before finally resting on his own parted lips.

His heart begins to beat painfully in his chest, he can't think. Half of him wants to push that boney cold corpse off of him, to yell at Griffith because this is...it's...

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

...It feels so good.

He feels his arms wrap around the slender waist. In response, Griffith deepens the kiss, his slender hands fisting themselves into Guts' hair and it feels _so_ good. Griffith's lips are so soft, his body so smooth and slender in Guts' arms.

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

In the spur of the moment, his head still filled with heat and sinful lust, he flips them over with surprising force.

A pained cry has him pulling away.

"It's nothing," Griffith is quick to respond, his breathing still heavy and his cheeks flushed a bright pink.

But the moment is lost and like an avalanche, reality comes crashing back down onto him.

"I-I'm sorry," he says even though it had been Griffith who had started the whole thing. He doesn't bother waiting for a reply, his body still hot from the kiss, he decides to leave the tent.

In his haste, he fails to notice the small devious smirk spreading slowly across his leader's face.

He always gets what he wants.

 

 

** Radiation Fog **

This type of fog forms at night under clear skies with calm

winds when heat absorbed by the earth’s surface during the day is radiated into

space. As the earth’s surface continues to cool, provided a deep enough layer of moist air is present near the ground, the humidity will reach 100% and fog will form.

Radiation fog varies in depth from 3 feet to about 1,000 feet and is always found at ground level and usually remains stationary. This type of fog can reduce visibility to near zero at times and make driving very hazardous.


End file.
